


Ten Day Hustle

by oh_simone



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, M/M, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: Gokudera didn't handle Yamamoto's disappearance very well. He's handling Yamamoto's return even worse.





	Ten Day Hustle

**Author's Note:**

> A very old WIP I found and polished off an ending for.  
> Thanks to myndii as always for reading and encouraging.

_Seven days, four hours, twenty-two minutes after Yamamoto fails to check in on a routine mission to Kaohsiung, Gokudera breaks the table lamp against the walls and then very calmly throws everyone out of his office. Nothing out of the ordinary preceded this; his assistant isn’t being any more or less incompetent. The talks with Cavallone are blandly tedious. His coffee tastes normal._

_Only, it has been seven days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes from Yamamoto’s last check-in. Gokudera stares hard at the fine wood grain of his desk, his shoulders and hands clenching in a bloodless grip, and tries, very hard, to breathe._

 

“Hey.” Yamamoto sticks his head around the door, grinning. Gokudera doesn’t bother to acknowledge him as he finishes his scathing memo to his underlings. This doesn’t deter his colleague, who closes the door behind him and quietly takes a seat. The office is warm, drowsy summer sun streaming through the tall glass panes, and more times than Gokudera likes to admit, he’s found himself susceptible to impromptu naps. It’s why he got rid of his ergonomic chair for what Haru deems a primitive medieval torture device, but it works, more or less. _Too well_ , he thinks sourly as he finishes his memo and is left with nothing else that needs his immediate attention except for the idiot lounging across from him, smiling absently and scratching at the bandages under his shirt cuffs. Gokudera’s eyes flickers down to the motion, then back up, carefully devoid of expression. 

“You should be working on your report,” he snaps, but Yamamoto just grins and flips a thumbdrive at him. Gokudera catches it by reflex, pointedly doesn’t scowl.

“Done,” Yamamoto grins. “Hey, let’s have lunch. You can tell me what I’ve missed.”

The air seizes in his lungs and clogs his throat; outwardly, Gokudera’s breathing only hitches slightly. For ten days Yamamoto had been MIA before resurfacing on a fishing skiff off the coast of Macau. The ghost of his past agitation roils over him briefly. He does not care to share that with Yamamoto.

“I’m busy,” he says shortly. “And you need to meet with Haru in fifteen minutes.”

Yamamoto makes a rueful noise. “I was hoping you’d forget,” he says, but stands anyways, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the pull on his injuries. “Ah, well. Next time?” he asks over his shoulder.

Gokudera makes a noncommittal sound, pretending to be absorbed in reading over his memo. He ignores Yamamoto’s fond chuckle as the door closes, focuses on carefully rewriting a word on the margins.

 

_On the third morning, Gokudera checks his phone as soon as he thumbs off his alarm. Nothing. Three days after check-in, and Yamamoto is still missing. Three is bad, but not as bad as it could be. Three is a minor injury, lying low. Three could be stuck in the high mountains without reception or a phone. Three is doable. His gut instincts are uneasily twisting, but he ruthlessly ignores them; just because he’s… fond of Yamamoto, he must be aware enough not to blow the situation out of proportion. Three is putting backup on alert, go-bags in the car. Three is having medical and legal on standby. Three could be too late._

_Gokudera breathes out slowly. Then, he gets up and goes to work._

 

Downtown is where Gokudera goes to meet Haru over working lunches. Unlike the rest of the Vongola, Haru still has a normal, functional, non-mafia related job at a Tokyo law firm—it serves multiple purposes, but the most important one is that it gives Gokudera an excuse to leave the compound and vent to someone whose mind works most like his over overpriced carbonara. She’s already at their usual table in a secluded corner, absently sipping mineral water and reviewing something on her tablet. Her blue wool crepe top and matching skirt fits with the high-end décor of the restaurant; her Manolo Blahniks are, in contrast, kicked off carelessly under the table.

“You are late,” she tells him without glancing up from her tablet. Gokudera rolls his eyes and flags down a server for a glass of wine.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he responds testily, which finally makes her look up with an unimpressed glare.

“Tsuna is worried about you,” she says, and he grimaces. “Oh, stop that. You should know better.”

“There’s nothing for him to worry about,” he objects. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“Nothing. Reborn though, asked me to talk to you about taking your vacation days,” she says pointedly.

Gokudera winces and sighs. The server comes by and drops off their wine. After a long pause, she tucks her tablet away. “It’s the Taiwan mission, isn’t it,” she says not unsympathetically and with a meaningful lift of her brows. To her credit, she doesn’t follow it up with any trite bullshit; she learned long ago how to keep Gokudera from snapping off her head, after all.

He drags his finger tip down the side of his wine glass, the condensation pooling under his nail and rolling down the stem. “It was bound to happen,” he says. “I should have been better prepared.”

“That’s not what I meant, Hayato,” Haru says sharply.

“I’m working on something; it’ll need your review before Tsuna sees and signs,” he bulls on, ignoring her. “I’ll have the drafts to you by the end of the week. And I want to sit down and review the contingency plans for senior family.”

“Everyone’s plans are _fine_ ,” she sighs, rubbing her temples. “And if you dare send me anything work-related before next month, I really will book you into an Indonesian beach resort. Your work schedule is the family’s second-biggest liability, you know that?”

This is familiar territory, and Gokudera can recognize the easy out he’s been given. Haru loves him dearly but is nowhere near invested enough in his bullshit to face it head on herself.

“I’ll dial it back,” he allows, and she snorts.

“Right, sure.” Her eyes are sharp on him as he dabs a slice of bread in a puddle of grassy olive oil. She reaches out and grips his wrist. “Gokudera, you had a panic attack in front of enough people to be of concern. This is not the time to be distracted by whatever new project you think will prevent terrible things from happening. We both know _nothing will ever be enough_. Don’t get lost.” She releases his hand and sinks back into her seat.

“You done?” he asks very quietly.

“One can only hope,” she says, sounding tired. She knows him too well though because she adds, “Get it into me before Thursday, and I’ll take a look.”

 

_The eighth day comes and goes. Hibari sends a terse update just after noon; he’s tracked down the last known location of Yamamoto, but the trail’s gone cold. Gokudera reads and rereads the report he’d sent over, the pictures of the deserted seaside shack that still shows signs of a struggle, broken glass and bottles, overturned stools, the small Mazu shrine in disarray, scattered, broken joss sticks and upset bowls over the table. Blood in dark, heavy smears and spray along the walls._

_Gokudera closes the report and calls his assistant into the room. They have many things to go over, especially since the day before was not… productive. But first, he hands his assistant an envelope with two tickets to the symphony; I won’t be able to go, he says._

 

“Gokudera,” someone says, and he startles, the empty glass tumbler slipping his fingers. Gokudera curses and stiffens, but the jarring, splintering crash never comes. The glass is caught in long, pale fingers, fit comfortably into a callused palm. He raises his gaze with something approaching resignation to see Yamamoto bent at his side, one arm braced against the back of Gokudera’s chair. Yamamoto flashes a quicksilver smile at him and gently sets the glass down on the desk. “That was close!”

“Don’t sneak up on me,” Gokudera says. It sounds less harsh, and far more tired than he intends.

“Sorry,” Yamamoto says, clearly not. He moves to face Gokudera. “I knocked, but I don’t think you heard.”

It was possible, Gokudera grudgingly concedes. He’s not been sleeping much, and though the couch in his office is not built for comfort, it’s just soft enough to lower his guards. He makes a mental note to replace it with wooden benches.

“What d’you need?” Gokudera says, rolling forward and slowly levering himself to his feet. He’d tried to work on the sofa set in front of the fire place, but apparently that’s been a mistake. “Time s’it?”

Yamamoto’s expression is muted and blurred in the dim firelight, the flickering play of shadow over his features giving him a grim cast, but his voice is light. “Just past eleven. I was on my way out but saw the light in your office.”

Gokudera grimaces and yawns. “Thanks,” he grumbles. An hour lost, but easy enough to make up. He passes a hand over his face, flicks on his desk lamp, and turns his attention back to the report on his desk.

A hand splays across his vision; Yamamoto hasn’t left, is in fact still in front of him, pinning the folder to his desk.

“What the fuck,” Gokudera says, but Yamamoto just quirks a brow.

“Leave it to tomorrow, Gokudera,” he says. “It’s late. Let me drive you home.”

“This is _important_ ,” Gokudera hisses through clenched teeth.

“It can wait one night,” Yamamoto insists. “Hey, Gokudera. I’m worried about you.”

“Well, keep it to yourself,” Gokudera snarls with sharp-blooming rage, so visceral he’s surprised blood isn’t drawn. Instead of focusing on Yamamoto’s startled expression, he yanks the folder out from under the palm and jabs at the open door. “I don’t have time to argue with you,” he spits, and because Gokudera’s always been as vicious as a feral alley cat, he adds, “Not all of us can disappear for ten days without a fucking word.”

In the awful, ringing silence that follows everything stops. But then, one breath at a time, Gokudera’s senses return. First, the muted crackle of the fire grows in volume, and then in one prickling sweep, the nauseating pulsing shame and despair that spikes clear through his gut and out along his skin; and finally, finally, the look on Yamamoto’s face.

“I-” Gokudera forces out tightly, because this is neither the time nor place to talk about—anything. “-am sorry. That crossed the line.”

Yamamoto doesn’t reply immediately, but the lines of his face are settling into something cooler, set in stone. The corners of his mouth dip, fill like a mold being poured, with a colorless smile, something trotted out for public appearances and formal events. A default setting.

“Well, I caught you at a bad time, huh?” Yamamoto chuckles. Gokudera flinches. “Alright, alright. I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

His steps retreat out of the office; the door snicks shut with a curt finality and Gokudera’s hand is ready in a fist so he slams it down on his desk, rattling the whole frame. A pen rolls and clatters to the floor. “Fuck,” he spits. He digs the ball of his thumbs into the corners of his eye sockets and touch his fingertips to each other, a parody of prayer. After a long dark moment, he sighs and slumps into his shitty chair. On his desk, the folder still waits and he slides a finger under the manila, flicks it open with a tiny motion.

Yamamoto is still on medical leave, but he’s done well enough that Shamal predicts another two weeks of rest and the Rain Guardian will be up to scratch. That means six days because Yamamoto has always been a restless fucker. Haru is only free for the next two days, and Tsuna and Kyoko are heading to Italy in four. So, Gokudera has effectively three days to revise mission protocols and emergency measures, cram it through legal, and have the Tenth sign. Three days, to make sure whatever shit situation that fucking idiot lands himself next time, they can go and drag him out immediately. Three days, Gokudera thinks, and then another three he can spend in his labs to come up with a tracker strong enough to withstand an EMP.

Gokudera gets back to work.

 

 _“What do you mean?” Gokudera barks into the phone. “Is he or isn’t he there?” The voice on the other end of the phone is fuzzed by static and poor reception, and the wrongness drags on Gokudera’s already edged nerves. The door opens, framing the lanky figure of Reborn; he doesn’t enter, just stands at the threshold, hands in his pockets, watching Gokudera melt down on the phone like some greenhorn_ cugine.

_When the call ends—and Gokudera had managed to scrabble together some remaining scraps of his poise—Reborn tilts his head ironically._

_“Can I help you?” Gokudera manages through clenched teeth._

_“Your help isn’t worth much right now, is it?” Reborn observes, and before Gokudera can reply, he turns, dismissive. “Do whatever you want; don’t let Tsuna see you like this.”_

 

There are scars that Yamamoto keeps from those ten missing days. A long, ugly gash that looks worse than it is snarls across the top of his spine, the top of it cresting over his shirt collar. Gokudera hasn’t seen its entirety, though he’s read the report. It could have healed without the thick scar tissue, except for the lack of medical care it received. There’s a thick score along his left arm where a bullet burned past. An almost delicate line down his chin. And under his thumb is a small, deep puncture where he’d gripped a ragged fence wrong and the loose nail had buried in eagerly. Yamamoto recounts these tales laughingly, the Rua daughters gasping with appropriate intrigue as they hang off his words and arms.

A few yards away, Gokudera guides the conversation between the girls’ father and Tsuna. This is an important conversation; he and Tsuna and Reborn have been meticulously planning this for ages. David Rua is no Mafioso—he’s a venture capitalist and philanthropist, infamous for his condemnation of criminal organizations and his refusal to bend to any threats to him or his company. He’s an honest man, a stubborn one, and if the Vongola wants to reach their development goals, they needed him on their side.

So, no. Gokudera is not allowing distractions tonight. He ignores the quick pulse at his throat when Yamamoto’s voice falls silent; ruthlessly represses the urge to turn around and make sure he’s still there. They haven’t spoken since the incident two days ago; barely made eye contact. It bothers Gokudera not at all.

“…do you think, Hayato?” Tsuna says, and Gokudera sips his drink to stall, berating himself for losing concentration at this crucial moment. David Rua’s expression is polite, but there’s an ironic twist to his lips and a slightly strained edge to Tsuna’s voice that isn’t encouraging. Behind him, one of the girls says something, and Yamamoto’s laughter rises in response.

“It’s a fair enough proposal, but what if we threw in surveillance measures, Mr. Rua?” Gokudera asks.

The business man blinks, his gaze sharpening with dry amusement. “You referring to my panel discussion at SXSW last March, Mr. Gokudera? You have done your homework.” It won’t help you much, his expression seems to flash.

“On the contrary. I was thinking about the investments in technology you made two months ago,” Gokudera corrects, and sees Rua’s look turn wary. Besides him, Tsuna has the bland expression of someone who isn’t sure where the conversation has wandered.

Gokudera feels the smile on his face grow edged. “I think we have much to discuss, Mr. Rua, more than you may have supposed.”

 

_“By the way, what have you heard of Yamamoto?” Tsuna asks as Gokudera gathers his notes. “He’s missed the last two check-ins?”_

_“Yes, but don’t worry, Tenth,” Gokudera assures him. “He’s probably forgot the protocol or lost his phone. It isn’t unusual for him!”_

_Tsuna inclines his head but hesitates. “Try calling him,” he finally says, and Gokudera straightens up._

_“Tenth?” he asks._

_There’s a faint scratch of apprehension between Tsuna’s brows and a downward set to his mouth. “I… just have a feeling.”_

_“Of course,” Gokudera agrees immediately. “I’ll initiate contact protocol.”_

_“Thanks. And let me know when you hear from him,” Tsuna says with a brief smile. He leaves and Gokudera reaches for the binder in his top drawer, a building tension in his shoulders. It is only the second day, but…_

_But Tsuna clearly thinks Yamamoto might be in trouble. And he is rarely wrong._

 

It is early, and Tsuna looks tired. He’s leaving the Vongola compound after lunch, had only come in to the office this morning on Gokudera’s request. Gokudera has made coffee for them both in apology.

“This is excellent work, Gokudera,” Tsuna says, fingers pressed to his temples as he reviews the paperwork, “but some of these suggestions…”

“Our people are our best asset, Tenth,” Gokudera reminds him. “It’s long overdue, these updates. And I’ve got the first prototypes in production-”

“Gokudera, of course I understand,” Tsuna cuts in, wrapping his fingers around his mug, leaching warmth from the ceramic. “And I agree, we should do all we can to prioritize safety, but…”

“It’s unobtrusive, it’s undetectable to all mainstream screeners, look,” Gokudera says, tapping at the printed diagram.

“It’s an invasion of privacy,” Tsuna says flatly. He gestures helplessly. “A tracker like this? A permanent one, embedded? We can’t do that to our people, can’t ask them to give up the rest of their private lives.”

“They won’t have privacy to enjoy if they’re dead, Tenth, don’t you see? And look, we’ll have protocols restricting the monitoring to active missions and on duty shifts.”

But Tsuna shakes his head. “Look, it’s a… it’s an option that isn’t without merit, but I can’t sign this without careful consideration. I really, really want to give your proposal the attention it deserves, and I think Reborn will agree with a lot of these points as well.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Gokudera demands, and Tsuna blinks at him, startled.

“Of course I do. But let me think about it for now.”

“Certainly,” Gokudera says curtly, and as Tsuna smiles and tucks the folder into his briefcase, asks, “How long?”

The Tenth raises his eyebrows. It’s clear that Tsuna, whose patience is usually boundless, is wary of Gokudera’s insistency. “Given that I won’t be back until next Monday, let’s follow up in two weeks?”

“What?” Gokudera explodes. “No! Look, Tenth, that’s too long. That’s- I have it scheduled. The next level five assignment is in six days, and I can complete the first round of trials with the new tracker in four. One day for the procedure and recovery—it’s outpatient, nothing worse than a few stitches, and the agent can go off to throw himself off the flaming lip of the volcano-”

“This isn’t a snap decision,” Tsuna cuts in firmly.

Gokudera hurls his mug to the ground; coffee and ceramic shards explode and skitter all across the floor.

In the next second, all his rage and urgency disappears in wake of overwhelming cold horror. From far away, he dimly hears the doors open and Sasagawa and Yamamoto’s rushed footsteps, but Gokudera barely registers their presence. His spine is stiff with shock, his knees weak with shame.

A hand grips his shoulder and nudges him into a chair, and then Tsuna is crouched before him. His gaze is steady, and somehow free of reproach.

“Tenth,” Gokudera pleads, and to his horror, his voice cracks. “Please, I'm...”

“Gokudera.” Tsuna’s voice is quiet and his expression is compassionate. “Take the rest of the week.”

_The clock ticks twelve minutes past midnight on the tenth day, and then something begins buzzing in Gokudera's desk. He stares blearily, then jolts from his seat and crosses the room in two steps. The drawer isn’t locked, but his shaking fingers still make a mess out of finding the matte black case coded to his fingerprint, dully vibrating against the wood._

_Inside, the plain burner phone blinks at him an unknown number. Gokudera snatches it up and mashes the answer button so hard it nearly drops from his grip._

_“Gokudera,” he snaps into the receiver._

_“Oh, thank god,” a voice laughingly sighs, crackly and ephemeral over the staticky reception. “I thought I’d called the wrong number. Hey Gokudera, it's me. Haha, funny thing happened, but I’m in Macau, can you come get me?”_

 

Yamamoto murmurs over his head, something that has Tsuna and Sasagawa exiting the office and closing the door behind him. Gokudera doesn’t want to be alone with Yamamoto, but his hand reaches up of its own accord and wraps around Yamamoto’s wrist.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto says, and tugs at his grip. But he doesn’t shake him off, just adjusts his arm so Gokudera has a better hold and sits down next to him. “I’m worried about you.”

It’s a funny thing to say, and Gokudera almost laughs, but the breath hisses from him in a stuttering stream. He says, “I don’t know what you want to hear. But talk, if you want.”

Yamamoto nods thoughtfully. “Okay then," he says, and adds after a moment, "You want to chip me like a dog.”

Gokudera flinches, but Yamamoto lays a hand over his and squeezes reassuringly.

“Haru sent me the files for review,” he says. “It seemed fitting, given that I’m probably the guinea pig you have in mind for it.”

“It was a mistake,” Gokudera says dully, and lets go of Yamamoto’s arm. “Forget about it.” He wants a pack of cigarettes, whisky, and ten solid hours of sleep—he wants to see no one, wants to be forgotten until Monday.

“Hey, no,” Yamamoto says, and then there’s a warm, callused palm at the base of his neck, firm and familiar. “I would’ve preferred you come talk to me about it, but I get it. I know how you work. I _know you_.”

Gokudera doesn’t say anything.

Yamamoto’s gaze is heavy on him. “C’mon,” he says, and before Gokudera can protest, he hauls him to his feet and starts towing him out of the office.

“Let go,” Gokudera protests, but it feels half-hearted. He’s too sick with self-disgust to do much more than jerk his arm free, but Yamamoto goes with it and slings an arm over Gokudera’s shoulder instead. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” Yamamoto says, and punches the elevator button for the second basement level.

They ride in silence until the doors ding open, and then Yamamoto, with his usual rough grace, tugs Gokudera down the halls of R&D along a very familiar route, to a very familiar door.

“What the fuck,” Gokudera sighs as Yamamoto presents the door to his own private lab with a flourish.

“Inside,” Yamamoto insists, and as Gokudera glares at him, he raises his eyebrows. “Unless you want to have this conversation out here?”

“Whatever,” Gokudera says and punches in the entry code.

Inside, it’s exactly as he’d left it—his notes in organized disarray, the scattered guts of a timed explosive on the main table and a beaker of noxious looking solution under the fume hood, chairs all pushed to one wall so as not to impede the perambulating scientist. Yamamoto strides over and grabs a chair, drags it back to the main desk and sits in it. He crosses his long legs at the ankle and beams.

“…What are you doing?” Gokudera asks reluctantly, and Yamamoto rolls down his sleeve and brandishes a pale forearm.

“You need a guinea pig,” Yamamoto says simply.

For a moment, Gokudera stares. And then, to his relief, anger reliably rises to the occasion and swamps his senses. “Are you shitting me?” he snaps, and stomps across the room. “Don’t patronize me, jackass—I don’t need you to come down here and tell me what to do. It’s none of your damn business.”

Yamamoto, calm as a cucumber, just leans back and eyes him with a faint smile. “It’s not?”

“Hell, no,” Gokudera shouts and shuts his mouth with an audible clack. He stares hard over his right shoulder, breathing shallowly. His hands he forces to uncurl from fists and when he isn’t in danger of flipping the lab table right over onto the smug idiot’s head and finishing what the Taiwanese triads couldn’t, he faces forward again. “I admit, your… mission highlighted some outrageous oversights in our system.”

“Yeah, I know,” Yamamoto laughs. They are a study in contrasts—the swordsman in a graceful, leggy sprawl while the right-hand man is coiled so tight he thinks he might crack at the slightest touch. “I was there. And you’re fixing it, right? So, go ahead, chip me.”

Gokudera’s jaw is so tight his temples hurt. “I’m happy to, once the Tenth signs off,” he says icily. “Until then, _fuck off_.”

Yamamoto tips his head back to the ceiling, sighing with light disappointment and Gokudera is distracted by the long, pale line of exposed throat, scarred by red, still-healing tracery that skims over and down his chin, tapering to a fine point just above his Adam’s apple.

“Okay,” Yamamoto says and swings forward, the momentum carrying him onto his feet so that he is suddenly towering over Gokudera and standing very close. His eyes are sharper than his smile. “I was locked in the basement of a stinking shrimp farm by some real country assholes who barely spoke Mandarin, much less Japanese, for five days. It took another five in the back of a truck of pineapples and a fishing boat before I could shake them. Gokudera,” he says, “I knew I’d find my way back to you.”

Gokudera blinks. A moment later, his face is suddenly too hot and something like panic clutches at the back of his throat. Yamamoto isn’t done though, and his hands are suddenly on Gokudera’s shoulders, tethering him in place.

“I also knew I was going to be okay. Some cuts, some bruises,” Yamamoto laughs. “Nothing that won’t heal in the long run. But I knew you probably had no idea where I was or if I was still alive. If it had been the other way around, I…” he hesitates and then shrugs. “I would’ve gone mad.”

“I wouldn’t have been thick enough to get kidnapped and lost for ten days in the first place, idiot,” Gokudera retorts, but it’s got no bite. Yamamoto laughs again and his hands slide down to Gokudera’s biceps.

“Probably not,” he agrees peaceably and that's all it takes. Gokudera gives in; ends the scant inches separating them and drops his forehead into the join of Yamamoto’s neck and shoulder.

“I’m not putting a fucking untested prototype in you,” Gokudera mutters; he’s swaying now, all energy gone and too tired to shove off from his position. Yamamoto takes shameless advantage of his weakness and sweeps him close, broad arms encircling him with ease. “And Tsuna’s right—I can’t have that sort of power of knowing every time you sneak out for McDonalds.”

“You can. I don’t mind if it’s you,” Yamamoto says, warm and amused.

“That’s why I can’t, idiot,” Gokudera says with half-hearted venom.

“Well how about,” Yamamoto says, “we both get one. That way, it’s equal.”

Gokudera turns his face so that he’s pressing into the bright steady pulse just under Yamamoto’s skin. “Maybe,” he agrees.

 

_“-pineapple in this soup, Gokudera, you’d hate it,” Yamamoto tells him cheerfully. “It’s delicious!”_

_“If you get sick on this trip, I’ll know it’s because you’ll put just about anything in your mouth,” Gokudera murmurs into the phone, absently marking a correction on the report he was simultaneously reviewing._

_“Oh, I’ve put worse, and it’s never been a problem,” Yamamoto assures him, and it takes Gokudera a beat to parse the gleefully lewd tone before his face twists into an amused grimace._

_“Ugh,” he says pointedly, but grins reluctantly when Yamamoto’s laughter echoes in his ear. “Hey, get back to work, slacker. Where’s your contact?”_

_“Ah, I think I see him,” Yamamoto says, voice a little faint as if he was craning his head in the opposite direction. “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”_

_“Copy. Remember, don’t let them waste more than a couple hours of your time,” Gokudera says. “You’re always too nice. If you miss your ride home because you let them talk you into an extra day of negotiation, I’m writing it off and washing my hands of you.”_

_“Ha! Whatever you say, Gokudera. I’ll be back in time for that Ragamuffin concert.”_

_“Rachmaninoff,” Gokudera corrects, but he snerks a little anyhow._

_“Yes, him too. See you soon,” Yamamoto says._

_“Alright. Don’t fuck up,” Gokudera replies, and hangs up the phone, glancing at his watch. Next check-in in five hours. That's almost no time at all, so Gokudera puts his head down and gets back to work._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> me: ma it's a mess  
> myndii: nawwwww, Gokudera's the mess
> 
> Commentary [here](https://chouette.dreamwidth.org/138824.html).
> 
> Tumblr here:  
> [aiyahsimone](https://aiyahsimone.tumblr.com/)


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